Destiny's Magic (20 page)

Patriarch of a family divided by three well-intended wishes, Fitzhugh O'Brien, better known as Fitz, tottered through the doorway at 21 rue Royale. While his grandson offered the courtyard, Susan vowed suspicions of Throck would not spoil this unexpected occasion.

She studied the elderly man who, if memory served correctly, came to America at bayonet point. He certainly didn't look like a rabble-rouser. He had a shock of greased white hair and affable features. Stooped and depending on a blackthorn shillelagh to stay steady, Fitz O'Brien more resembled his dog.

The bloodhound—hanging jowls, arthritic gait, baggy eyes—wobbled behind him as his master achieved the courtyard. Burke helped his grandfather into a chair, and Shamrock curled up at his feet to drop a muzzle on crossed paws and close those drooping eyes, every bit at home.

“We trust you'll stay here with us,” Susan said, smiling.

“I willna. Have checked into the Hotel St. Charles with me girls. And Eugene.”

Burke didn't pitch a fit at mentions of Tessa or Genie?

Manners called for Susan to sit at the table, but she went to the kitchen, company calling for celebration, even at the breakfast hour. And this was a beautiful day, her first in weeks that hadn't begun by her fretting over piracy as it related to Burke, or over a brute named Paget.

Zinnia not having stirred this morning, Susan started a fire in the cookstove to brew coffee and to warm yesterday's croissants. “I'm glad for company,” she told a stray cat that came around for a dish of milk. “Company? Family. What will I serve? Ah, there's a fresh coconut. Nothing except for a lap of cream is better than a coconut cake. Do you agree, kitty?”

The sleek pussycat licked cream from her Abyssinian paw, her head bobbing as if in agreement.

“But, cat, what am I going to say to old Mr. O'Brien about dear Phoebe?”

Kitty cocked her head. “Meow?”

“That is exactly what I'll sound like, a cat, if I meddle in Phoebe's affairs.”

Poor Phoebe, possibly in love with a murderer. Susan clicked her tongue, then sliced fresh fruit and set to the baking. By the time the coffee perked and the batter was in the oven, she had a positive outlook. Burke would clear Throck.

A tray balanced in her hands, she left the kitchen and returned to the courtyard. Burke took the foodstuff, set it down, then helped her into a seat beside his grandfather, who smelled of wool and pomade.

Fitz O'Brien buttered a croissant before saying, “Ye're a beauty, Susan. Remind me of me Edna, ye do.”

The baggy eyes belonging to Fitz O'Brien brightened, jolting Susan. Hidden by folds of age, they were green, like her husband's. And every bit as expressive. She rather liked the idea of being around two oleander-eyed O'Briens.

“Gran Fitz,” Burke pointed out, “you said that to Ind.”

“I didna, though India is a four-leaf clover. Yer aunt claimed India is like yer granny. Susan is Edna.”

Both men studied her. Burke grinned and said, “You're right. It's the eyes.”

“Aye. The eyes.”

Praise from a pair of charmers? Susan scoffed it away.

Fitz asked her, “Are ye a good Presbyterian gal?”

She ducked her chin. It wasn't even Church of England she could claim. While Everton had escorted her to Sunday services during her formative years, she'd spent six days a week stirring a cauldron at St. Ann. Or at Congo Square. Or out by the lake. “I am hoodoo, sir.”

“Better Hindu than Church of England.”

Neither Susan nor Burke corrected him.

“Gran'son, ye doona mind me visit, I trust,” said Fitz. “Wouldna be natural, not meeting yer bride.”

“You're always welcome in our home,” Burke replied. “Susan and I will always be pleased to have you.” The younger pair of those oleander eyes drilled her. “Won't we, darlin'?”

“As long as I am mistress of this household, you are most welcome here, sir.”

“Call me Gran Fitz. 'Twill hurt if ye don't.”

It pleased her, his asking to be addressed in the familiar. Her own grandfather had always demanded the formal. “Of course, Gran Fitz. Now you fellows must excuse me. I've got a cake to fetch from the oven.”

“What kind?” Fitz wanted to know.

“Coconut.”

“My favorite. And Contessa's.”

Surprisingly, Burke didn't boil up at his most-resented aunt's name.

Zinnia then traipsed downstairs. “Good gracious, Mr. Fitz,” she exclaimed with genuine affection. “It's good to see you again, umm-hmm. Where you been, angel face? I been looking for you for four doggone years.”

“Ye've lost none of yer charm, Zinnia Jefferson.”

“You ain't neither.” The dog shambled to his paws to greet an old friend, who dug in her apron for a much-appreciated biscuit. “How old're you now, Mr. Fitz, a hunnerd?”

The folds of his face jiggled as he chuckled. “Seems like it. Seems like it.”

“Where's Sugar Pie Tessa? Can't picture you without her. And Miss Salty? How they taking that lamp blowed up?”

Susan said, “I do believe that cake may burn.” She again set a course for the kitchen, but her faith in Burke grew when his temper didn't explode.

“Contessa wants to see Burke. Begged to,” Fitz said. “I told her to wait for a sign, but I know naught will be coming.”

Susan, her hand on the kitchen door, gave a small, dry laugh. Grandson and Grandfather shared the same outlook on reconciliations: wait for other people to make the first move. Could it be her husband waited for Susan to make the first admission of love?

Zinnia bustled in, and they addressed efforts to the cake.

 

 

“ 'Tis Jon Marc I need to find,” Fitz stated not a minute after Susan and Zinnia had gone to the kitchen. “Sent a scout to find his whereabouts. Eu—Well, I know me gran'son is in Texas. Thinking of going after him, I am.”

Jon Marc. Burke's baby brother. How he hankered to see the kid again. “Leave him be, Gran Fitz.”

“I canna. He's me blood. And 'tis too old I'm getting to own the factor house. Ye and Connor refused it. Turning it over to Jon Marc is me goal.”

“He won't come back. You know how he is.”

But Fitz O'Brien did not know how it was. Burke would be drawn and quartered before breaking his grandfather's heart. “Sell the place.”

“I willna. 'Tis a better life I offer than ranching.”

Pippin prevented further Jon Marc talk. The boy bounded into the courtyard, Zombi making a cravat around his neck. He stopped twenty feet from the assemblage. “Oops. Sorry, Dad. Didn't know we had company. Where's Momma?”

“Is that yer new son, Burke?” Fitz asked, and Burke concurred.

“Who're you, sir?”

“Yer great-granddaddy.”

Pip didn't look convinced. “Nuh-uh. You're company.”

“I am yer daddy's granddaddy.” Fitz patted his lap. “Me eyes doona work so good at ninety. Come forth, lad. I want to inspect ye. If ye not be minding.”

“Where's Momma?”

“I'm right here.” Susan glided back to the courtyard, Zinnia in her wake. “The cake is cool and the coconut shaved. We'll have it for luncheon dessert.”

“I'd best see to marketing. Gotta buy groceries for the family. Mmm-mmm, sure is nice to have us back together again.” Zinnia headed off, but not before asking, “Reckon I oughta set the table for Sugar Pie and Salty?”

Fitz eyed Burke.

“Might as well,” Burke allowed, and resigned himself to it. It was time to make peace with Aunt Tess.
Which means you've gotta forgive her for Toni.
He wouldn't go that far.

Hesitantly, Pippin walked forward. “Sure is a nice dog.”

“Shamrock wouldna mind a pat or fifty.”

Pippin touched the dog shyly, then with more trust after a pink tongue raked his wrist. “I'd sure like to have a pup. Just like Shamrock. Zinn says what I need is a baby brother. But Dad's gotta get outta the rubber business fir—”

“Pippin, that is enough!” Susan blushed as Fitz tittered.

Burke gulped. Several times he hadn't been careful. Could a sibling be on the way already? He eyed his wife. It was a strange feeling he got, erotic, thinking about his juices mixing with hers to make a baby. Would those juices blend into blond hair or black, brown eyes or green?
Watch out.
He didn't want to cage her with a child.

“Your dog's kinda funny-looking,” Pippin was saying.

“Funny-looking lads, even as ugly as Fitz O'Brien, need love.” Gnarled hands showed amazing strength to lift the boy onto a lap. “What's 'round yer neck, stripling? Canna be a goiter, so I'll be guessing a snake.”

“Are you scared of snakes?” Pippin asked.

“Scared? Raised a son, two daughters, and three gran'sons. Scared of nothing is Fitz O'Brien. And doona call me sir. The name is Granddaddy.”

That was when Pippin looped his arms around age-worn shoulders. “Do you know how to play checkers?”

“Is there a big wicked snake in the waters of Loch Ness? 'Course I play checkers.”

The snake part superseded the board game. Pip wanted to know all about it. After receiving an answer that would have put a sot Irishman to shame for exaggeration, the lad said, “I'd sure like to see that snake. Where is Scotland, Granddaddy? Isn't it south of England?”

“North, stripling. North but connected.”

“Dad, can we go up there when we move to England?”

Wisely, Fitz said nothing. Susan jumbled the coffee cups together. Burke dug at his collar, replying hoarsely, “Maybe we can work in a visit someday.”

“Willya come with us, Granddaddy? Willya, willya?”

“In an invalid's chair could be Fitz O'Brien, but, stripling, if ye're willing to push me chair down to the loch and back, aye. Provided ye bring me all the way back to these United States. Will rest next to me Edna gal.”

“I don't wanna stay over there. Matter of fact, if it weren't for that ole Loch Ness snake, I'd rather stay on the Mississippi. Dad says England could ruin a good lad. Says if I stay here he'll teach me how to be a riverboat cap'n.”

Burke again dug at his collar. He had said those things. He took a glance at Susan, expecting her to set the boy straight. Oddly, she was smiling. What was behind that smile?

“Ya know, Granddaddy, I've never had a grandpa before.”

“I recommend him.” Burke swallowed. “He's a good one.”

Susan turned to Burke; their eyes met. “The earl never took me on his lap,” she whispered. “In fact, I can barely picture him at all. All I recall is a hard-set mouth and an unbending grandfather behind a huge desk in a walnut-paneled library. With nothing but criticism and censure.”

Burke squeezed her fingers tenderly. “Pip will have better memories.”

 

 

Pip will have better memories. Susan prayed they would be long in nature . . . and more children would know the magic. For the first time in her life, she felt part of a large family. But she later had to chuckle. How could one old man make a circle of three grow to such large proportions? Well, Fitz was a special O'Brien.

This was truly a special day.

The aunts made their advent in time for a lunch of avocado and shrimp salad and coconut cake. Knowing her husband had no use for the genie, Susan was glad that Eugene Jinnings didn't accompany the Misses O'Brien. That Throck was also absent sent Susan's faculties to attention.

At least she could be glad for how Burke greeted Aunt Tessa. While he didn't kiss her cheek or proffer an arm to escort her to the dining salon, he didn't fall to a black mood.

The O'Briens circled the Chippendale table.

Susan's feelings for Aunt Phoebe firmly entrenched, she couldn't help but like the sandalwood-scented sister as well. Tessa had a sweetness to her that must have come from the sainted Edna, but the sisters were as different as daylight and dark. Whereas Phoebe had angles and planes, Tessa was round and dimpled. Tessa's salt and pepper ringlets, each dressed to perfection, were unlike Phoebe's knot of faded-fire hair. But you could see a resemblance in their eyes, although the tall one had a gray hue to hers and Tessa's were blue.

“Aren't you the most precious thing,” Tessa bubbled at the announcement of coconut cake after the seafood salad. “You just don't know how I've been dreaming of this day.”

Susan could well imagine.

Tessa dimpled a smile. “My, my, a precious bride for my nephew and my favorite cake to boot. Land sakes, I've died and gone to heaven.”

Burke frowned at that remark.

Susan ventured a glance at Phoebe. “Where is Throck?”

“Haven't the foggiest notion. Haven't seen him since we left Barataria. Couldn't come to town with us. Had business to take care of, he said.”

“Have you set a wedding date?” Susan asked slowly.

“She's wanting a Halloween wedding,” Tessa answered. “Can you imagine? A pagan day!”

“Hush, Tessa.”

“Please don't shush me, Phoebe. A day that isn't Christian—Mother would turn over in her grave.”

“Wonder what she'd think about Arabic holidays?” Burke picked up his coffee cup. “Forget I said that.”

Susan wouldn't forget his allusion.

Phoebe commented into the falling tension. “Susan, I told Throck to meet up at the St. Charles when he's finished with business. Want me to send him over once he gets here?”